Do puppets like the strings that bind them? No.
Bloody eyes gaze down at her, safe behind age and lies. They whisper secrets to her and give her the gift of movement. She must be thankful or they will drop her.
She wishes to be free, not dropped. Dropped, left, deserted. She is not pure white, her eyes are not big—she is not as pure as the others. She can be dropped, not them. They are safe, their tiny mouths can say anything without being scolded, hated, avoided and many other unspecified things (just like her name), unwanted things.
When a puppet breaks free, what do they do? They dance. When she is free, she will dance. She will no longer live by mommy and daddy and the old one's rules. She can dance the way she wishes, she can dance like Vicki without the trapeze—apparently that's special but swinging on a bar back and forth is not very special. They just needed to come up with something so the baby didn't feel left out.
Because her friends are special. Big eyes with her voice and white-out with her grace and the plain one with her maturity.
Unspecified, the puppet; she has none of those things. Her voice is deep and womanly and does not fit her small body, her scream is loud and annoying and usually only means one thing. And now when the puppet needs them, needs her puppeteers and is screaming they do not come to help.
She was so loud, so annoying. And yet when the silent cat, all red and white and black pushed her down, when she finally made her escape and cut the strings, no one came. She was so close to the stage, so close to what was once her home—or was she? Distance and time and hope all disappeared as the blood—which was quite pretty, really, sparkling and gleaming like that—seeped out of her and the mystery cat—who really was not much of a mystery, you couldn't miss him unless he came behind you like he had on this occasion—left. She was torn and numb but the blood was pretty, like it was said, so it was okay.
Should the puppet have been like him, the silent cat? Silence is a virtue… or was that patience? Both she did not have, but that was irrelevant.
Where were her puppeteers? Did the marionette not matter anymore? Yes! She did! At least in her mind. Wasn't the baby supposed to be cherished and loved, even when she made a mistake?
Oh, she had forgotten. That only applied to big eyes and white-out and the plain one. Yes, puppet was a nuisance, she couldn't be molded as the others were. She wouldn't sit still, she wouldn't shut up and let the fat queen teach her. So they sat her in a corner and molded her with those lies and fairytales and jealousy—why were they prettier than her? Because they listened, young one. They never said it, but it was true.
She ruined the pretty that was her blood on the sidewalk, dragging herself towards the stage. Her puppeteers hands beckoned. She wanted to be home so bad—she would sit, listen, make up for the time lost and become something one could look up to, want.
That was impossible now, she realized. She was like the gray cat, the glamour cat, but without the beauty and the adoration. She was far more plain than the plain one herself, but she was sullied now. Sullied by red, black, and white. Not as if her fur was pure white like white-out's. She could still be tainted.
And now she was. She couldn't go back to the stage. She cut her strings all on her own and that was a mistake, a bloody mistake.
She thought she could dance without her strings. But now she lay in a jointed heap, last breaths heaving out. But her blood is pretty again, as she had to stop moving (she was in too much pain and was far too exhausted for that), and pools around her once again. It sparkles and drains out of her. Her personality, memories, happiness flow out with it. So do all those unspecified things.
She wills herself to scream again, in that happy way everyone hated, but it comes out broken and painful and she gurgles. And finally her puppeteers hear her. Big eyes comes first, ever the sharp one. Spots and tuxedo and her pretend boyfriend come as well. White-out dances onto the scene. Don't come closer, the puppet thinks, you'll be dirtied too. And they don't like dirty dolls…
The voices and tears (which are fake, she is sure) swirl around her and the sun crawls into view. Her blood looks even prettier now. But darkness creeps in, bleeding into view. They are opposites. White-out holds her hand. It will get bloody and no one will love her anymore.
But the puppet forgot. White-out is not her. They will love her anyway.
The puppet thought she could dance on her own. But without her strings, without her puppeteers, she cannot move.
She is carried away and the world dies.
The nightmare is not over. The show goes on. She is but an understudy now, watching with tears in her eyes. She will heal someday, but she will never dance again. She will never use the trapeze. Smile—or be smiled at.
She cut her strings. A puppet cannot dance without its strings.
As the ball goes on and the lights change, and the puppeteers get in a pyramid, she asks herself,
Was this what you wanted?
Whoa, depressing. I was bored. I promise I'll work on the stuff I'm supposed to now.
… Yeah.
Oh, if you don't get why I say Etcy's voice is womanly and unfitting, that's because it is. Everyone says her voice is high-pitched, but seriously? Have you heard her line—Are you keen to be seen when you're smelling a rat—that is not a childish voice… I hate how people bend her voice to her personality. (Well, maybe not hate. I dislike it.)